Anna and Her Daughters

by D. E. Stevenson

  “But they’re not artificial,” I said.

  “My dear lamb, of course they are! Real pearls cost the earth! You couldn’t buy a string of real pearls in a little shop in Ryddelton.”

  “I didn’t, Mother.”

  “But you said —”

  “Helen said it, and they were so busy arguing —”

  Mother smiled. “Well anyway I wouldn’t wear them, darling.”

  “You don’t mind if I wear them inside my jumper, do you?”

  “But why wear them at all?”

  I saw she would have to know so I took them off and dropped them into her hand and told her about them; I told her all that was necessary. It would not have been right to tell her about the boy who was killed at Mons for that was Mrs. Millard’s secret and not mine to tell.

  Mother listened without interrupting and then she said, “Yes, of course I’ve heard of pearls going sick — and they certainly look very strange — but she had no right to ask you to wear them and you’ll have to take them back to her.”

  “Oh Mother, why?”

  “It’s much too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous!” I cried.

  “Yes, dangerous,” said Mother firmly. “I won’t have you wearing them. You might be robbed — or the house might be burgled.”

  “Burgled for the pearls!”

  “They’re valuable, Jane.”

  “Oh I know they’re valuable. I suppose they must be worth about fifty pounds —” I began.

  “Darling goose!” exclaimed Mother. “If they’re real — which I suppose they are — five hundred is more like it.”

  I could not believe it. Five hundred pounds for that little string of beads; it was fantastic!

  “Probably more,” said Mother, examining them carefully. “I don’t know much about pearls but these are beautifully graded and that makes the string much more valuable. Supposing you were to lose them, Jane?”

  “I asked Mrs. Millard and she said it didn’t matter.”

  “Didn’t matter!” echoed Mother in amazement.

  “She would rather I lost them than keep them shut up in a box — that’s what she said, and she meant it. You see she’s an unusual sort of person. She doesn’t value things, she values ideas. The pearls have been shut up for years. They’ve been in prison; they’re sick and miserable. She said it made her miserable to see them. Don’t you understand?”

  “Yes, I can understand that,” said Mother reluctantly. “But you’ll have to take them back. We don’t even know if they’re properly insured.”

  They were not insured. I had asked Mrs. Millard and she had replied that she could see no object in paying a lot of money to insure things you were fond of, because it did not prevent them from being lost. Houses and furniture were different — she could take the insurance money and replace them — but she could not replace the pearls except by buying another string which would not be the same. I saw what she meant of course, but I could not explain it to Mother without telling her the whole story, so I just said they were not insured — and left it at that.

  “Not insured!” cried Mother in dismay. “Goodness! You must take them back at once. I won’t have them in the house another minute. Put on your coat and —”

  “Mother, listen”

  “No,” said Mother. “No, Jane. It’s all very well for Mrs. Millard to say she wouldn’t mind if they were lost, but I should mind — and so would you. Just think how frightful it would be if they were lost — or stolen!”

  “But I’ll wear them all the time under my jumper. How could I lose them? And how could they be stolen when nobody knows they’re here? Nobody will know. Even if people see me wearing them it won’t matter. People will think they’re artificial — you thought so, yourself. That makes it safe.”

  “It makes it safer,” Mother agreed. “But all the same you must take them back. I can’t accept the responsibility.”

  I wanted to wear the pearls. At first I had agreed to do it because I was sorry for Mrs. Millard (though she would not have liked me to say so) and because she had done so much for me that it seemed ungrateful to refuse. Now there was yet another reason; I had become fond of the pearls themselves and I wanted to cure them. It seemed a worthwhile thing to do. So I went on persuading Mother as hard as I could, and at last I saw she was weakening.

  “Mother, look at them,” I said. “I’ve been wearing them for a month and they’re better already — honestly they are. If I take them back they’ll be shut up in a horrid little box. You don’t want to send them to prison, do you? You wouldn’t like to think of the poor things shut up in prison, getting uglier and more miserable every day.”

  “Oh Jane, you are awful!”

  When she said that I knew the battle was won.

  “You are awful,” she repeated. “It’s quite wrong … It’s absolutely crazy … Andrew would be horrified …”

  I hugged her and said, “Thank you, thank you! I do want to cure them.”

  “But I must write to Mrs. Millard,” declared Mother. “I must make it clear that I can take no responsibility at all. If she wants you to wear the pearls the responsibility must be hers.”

  “She won’t mind.”

  “And another thing,” added Mother. “Remember this, Jane; nobody must know — not Helen, not Rosalie, not anybody.”

  “But if they ask me?”

  “You must tell them a lie, that’s all.”

  It was so amazing to hear Mother saying I must tell a lie that I was speechless.

  “Yes,” said Mother, nodding. “You must say — if necessary — that you bought them from Mrs. Struthers for three and elevenpence.”

  I suppose my face looked funny for she began to laugh and the next moment we were both laughing uncontrollably.

  “I don’t know why I’ve given in,” declared Mother when at last she could speak. “You’ve twisted me round your finger. You’ve persuaded me against my better judgment. You’re far too clever for me, Jane.”

  She was wrong about that and I told her so. It was impossible to work with Mrs. Millard for six months without knowing one’s limitations.

  “Oh yes, you are,” said Mother, “You’re the only one of the family with brains. I suppose you must have got them from your father. You ought to have gone to Oxford. I should have managed somehow. I could have borrowed the money from Leonard if I hadn’t been too proud.”

  She looked so sad all of a sudden that I kissed her and said it didn’t matter and I was much happier here.

  Mother shook her head. “That’s nonsense,” she declared. “And I never gave you permission to tell lies indiscriminately — only about the pearls.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Don’t let’s talk about it anymore. Let’s go and peel the potatoes. That’ll cheer us up.”

  We often peeled the potatoes together and it always cheered us up; Mother’s theory was that potatoes were like people — some big and important, others timid and insignificant. Their eyes were set differently in their heads; their noses were of different shapes and some of them had mouths. Sometimes Mother cheated a little and cut a mouth just where she wanted it and held up the potato and said ‘Who’s that?’ It was silly and childish but it was fun.

  To-day we were especially lucky; Mother got Mrs. Struthers with her fat bulging cheeks and her smiling mouth and I got Aunt Thelma with her eyes close together and her knobbly forehead. Mother cut a round piece of peel and stuck it on the back of her head and we both giggled.

  It took longer when we peeled the potatoes together but time is not important in Ryddelton. It is not like London where everybody lives with one eye on the clock.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day Rosalie returned from the Fergusons’ full of excitement.

  “They’re all going to Ayr for the Easter holidays,” she said. “And they’ve asked me to go with them. Jean says it will give them much more freedom if I’m there to look after the children. The only thing is …”

  “C
lothes!” exclaimed Mother.

  Clothes were becoming a big problem. We had brought all our clothes with us and although they were not exactly the sort of garments to wear in Ryddelton we had managed to make them do. Now they were getting threadbare and shabby and there was no money to replace them.

  “We’ll manage,” said Mother after a moment’s thought. “We must put off painting the house, that’s all. Andrew said we ought to have the outside woodwork painted, but it will have to wait.”

  Rosalie and Mother went to Edinburgh for the day; they went early and did their shopping and lunched with the cousins at Murrayfield Gardens. It was a very successful expedition and they both enjoyed it. Rosalie was delighted with her new coat and skirt, it was soft bluish-grey tweed and suited her admirably, and she had got a felt hat to match, They had bought nylon shirts and stockings and brown leather shoes and a blue silk frock for the evening. Altogether it was quite a trousseau. I had been a little doubtful as to whether it was right to put off painting Timble Cottage (for the paint on the windows was peeling off and the wood was showing) but Rosalie was so happy about her new clothes, and Mother was so happy when she saw Rosalie wearing them, that I changed my mind.

  It was curious that when we had been able to buy new clothes whenever we wanted we had never really appreciated them nor enjoyed them. You have to be in the position of needing things very badly indeed before you can appreciate possessing them.

  So Rosalie went to Ayr with Kenneth and Jean and the children. They were all going to stay with Kenneth’s brother; he, too, was a doctor and although he was a good deal younger than Kenneth they were tremendous friends and we had heard quite a lot about him. He had taken a temporary post at Ayr while one of the local doctors was on holiday and was living in the doctor’s house.

  “It’s a big house,” said Rosalie. “There will be plenty of room for the whole family. Jean says there’s a lovely garden for the children to play in. I think it will be fun.”

  When they had gone Mother and I were alone at Timble Cottage and to tell the truth it was very pleasant indeed. We decided that as we could not go away for a holiday we would have one at home, so we neglected the house a little and when I came back from my morning’s work with Mrs. Millard we went out together and walked for miles. Mother knew the country well, she had ridden over the moors when she was a girl, and she was able to show me paths and tracks which I had not found in my solitary wanderings. One day she took me to see Mount Charles which had belonged to her parents; it was a beautiful old house embowered in trees with stables and greenhouses and a fine old garden, sheltered by a high stone wall. We were standing at the gate, rather sadly, when the gardener saw us and asked if we wanted to come in.

  Mother explained that she had lived here when she was a child so she was interested in the place but she did not know the present owner. We were just turning away when the gardener came after us and said he was sure Sir Edward Fisher would like to see us.

  “Why should he?” asked Mother in surprise.

  “Because he’s a nice friendly sort of gentleman. That’s why.”

  This seemed an insufficient reason for the intrusion of two complete strangers and we were still arguing with the hospitable gardener when the gentleman himself appeared. He was short and rather tubby with sandy hair and a round cheerful face and spectacles; I liked him at once.

  “Here’s Sir Edward,” said the gardener — and he added, “I was just telling the leddies to come in. They used to live at Mount Charles and I thought they’d like to see the garden.”

  “Of course they must come in!” exclaimed Sir Edward. “They must see the house as well.” He bowed to Mother in a politely old-fashioned manner and invited us to come in and have tea.

  I could see that Mother was not anxious to accept the invitation but Sir Edward was so insistent, so kind, and so eager to entertain us that it was impossible to refuse … and soon we were sitting in the drawing-room of Mother’s old home having tea with its new owner. Mother was not quite as cheerful as usual — which did not surprise me — but Sir Edward was a talkative little man so there were no uncomfortable silences. First he talked about the house, and how much he liked it, and he detailed a few improvements he had made, and then he told us that he was a widower with three children. He told us that he was very lonely when the children were away at school but when they came home in the holidays it was delightful. (“This old house likes children,” he said). The children were at home now, for their Easter Holidays, but they had all gone over to Dunnian to spend the day.

  When Mother heard that he knew the Dunnes she cheered up a little and they chatted about various other people in the neighbourhood. He knew the Fergusons too. They were old friends (and very good friends, said Sir Edward); it was Jean Ferguson who had told him Mount Charles was for sale and it was partly because he liked Kenneth so much that he had decided to live at Ryddelton. When Mother told him that Rosalie was with the Fergusons, helping to look after the children, he was quite excited.

  It struck me, as I watched them talking, that it would be a very good arrangement if Mother were to marry Sir Edward and return to Mount Charles as it châtelaine; it was the sort of thing that happened in story books. Sir Edward was younger than Mother but he was one of those people who seem older than their years, and Mother seemed younger — so that would not matter. I was just arranging it all comfortably, and had begun to wonder what Rosalie and I would do, when Mother rose and said we must go home.

  “But you must stay to dinner!!” cried Sir Edward. “I want you to see the children — they’ll be home any minute now. Do stay, Mrs. Harcourt! Stay to dinner and I’ll send you home afterwards in the car.”

  He really wanted us to stay and was so persuasive that it was difficult to get away without being unkind but we managed it at last.

  “It was rather — painful,” said Mother as we walked down the avenue. “I mean seeing the dear old house. Of course it’s well cared for; he’s fond of it, you can see that.” She sighed and added, “I ought to be glad that it hasn’t been turned into a hotel, like Tocher, or a Rehabilitation Centre for Displaced Persons — that would be a lot worse.”

  “It’s still a home,” I agreed.

  When we got to the gate a large Bentley passed us; it was driven by a chauffeur in uniform and there were three children in it — two boys and a girl — they all had round chubby faces and one of them had spectacles. There was no doubt whatever about their parentage.

  “Just like Daddy!” exclaimed Mother. “No wonder he’s proud of them.”

  “I thought he was awfully nice, didn’t you?”

  “Awfully nice describes him admirably, but I don’t think I want an awfully nice husband, Jane. Oh yes, I saw you marrying me off to the poor little man. You decided it would be ‘awfully nice’ for me to go back to Mount Charles and live happily ever after in the home of my childhood. Really Jane, you ought to know better at your age.”

  I laughed rather uncomfortably.

  “Did you notice his silly little feet?” asked Mother. “They weren’t much bigger than mine.”

  “I liked him,” I said stubbornly. “I thought he was nice.”

  “No, Jane,” said Mother laughing. “I like my men tall and dark with enormous hands and feet; but there’s no need for you to find one for me, I’m perfectly happy as I am, strange as it may appear.”

  *

  We had several other expeditions while Rosalie was away. The warm weather was wonderful for the time of year, dry and warm and sunny. One especially fine morning I rang up Mrs. Millard and asked for a day off and we took the bus to St. Mary’s Loch. I had heard about the loch and had read Wordsworth’s poem but it was even more beautiful than I had expected, and a great deal bigger. It lay surrounded by hills and it was so clear and so still that every tree and rock was reflected in the water. There was nobody to be seen. The only living creatures besides ourselves were the sheep and the birds; the only sounds were the gentle lapping of the water
on the shore and the trickle of the numerous little burns.

  “It’s all for us,” I said to Mother as we sat down together on a fallen tree and took out our sandwiches. “All this beauty and peacefulness is just for us. It seems queer, doesn’t it?” Mother smiled and said, “Yes, I know what you mean, but perhaps it’s partly for the sheep and the birds. You should write a poem about it, Jane.”

  “I’ve written a novel,” I told her.

  As a matter of fact I had been trying to tell her about The Mulberry Coach but had never been able to make up my mind to do it. I had felt rather guilty about keeping the secret and the longer I put off telling her the harder it seemed.

  “You’ve written a novel!” she exclaimed in amazement. “It’s just a story,” I said. “I started it for fun — to see if I could do it — and then it went on. I couldn’t stop, you see. I never thought of it being published or anything like that, but Mrs. Millard thinks it might be.”

  “Mrs. Millard,” said Mother in an odd sort of voice.

  “Yes, she knows about books of course.”

  “Of course,” agreed Mother.

  “You’re pleased, aren’t you?” I said.

  “Yes, of course I’m pleased,” said Mother but somehow her words did not ring true.

  “Why aren’t you pleased?” I asked her.

  “Of course I’m pleased,” she repeated. “I am — really. It’s frightfully clever of you, Jane. I suppose that’s what you were doing in the evening after you went up to bed. I knew you were writing something but I thought it was extra work for Mrs. Millard. Silly of me, wasn’t it?”

  “No, of course it wasn’t silly. How could you know?”

  Mother was silent.

  There was peace all round us, but not inside. My heart had begun to thump in a most uncomfortable manner and my mouth was dry. “Mother,” I said, “I thought you’d be — pleased. If it’s published we may get some money. We might get enough to have the house painted. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”